


Jet

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock washes away the grime of a case. He has help.</p>
<p>(Two dozen words spoken. Volumes of non-verbal communication.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my patient beta [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen), who sticks around — even when it takes me three months to finish something with fewer than 3,000 words!

Sherlock stepped into the shower, his usual casual grace marred only by the weariness of his muscles.

 

He stood still, letting the water splash over his skin for a moment before he turned the tap to heat the water and adjusted the shower head setting to “jet.”

 

As the setting change kicked in and the firm stream of water made contact, Sherlock began shifting slightly, allowing the pulse to not-quite-gently massage his body.

 

Sherlock held his position, barely swaying to change the angle of contact. He pulled back just a bit to lower the angle of the water so it hit his abdomen and let his chin fall to his chest. He slowly rolled his neck in a full circle — ear to shoulder, skull toward shoulder blades, other ear to other shoulder — until he was back to where he started.

 

Rather than lifting his head, Sherlock began easing his body around until the water was working at the tension nestled in the point on his neck where dark curls met the bony vertebrae of his spine.

 

After a moment he began leaning forward to let the water thrum at his shoulders, his scapulae, down his spine. He let himself fall forward, catching himself first with a hand to the tile and then with his forehead to his forearm.

 

He felt the water trail down his spine as his body fell away from the stream, and he shivered slightly as the water hit his coccyx and that sensitive spot right below where skin stretched thin to cover the bone before clefting deep.

 

Sherlock pressed up on the balls of his feet, toes splaying as he encouraged the water to sluice between his cheeks and down to his opening.

 

The arm that had been hanging loosely at his side, he brought up — slowly, too worn out to expend unnecessary energy on speed — and rested on his hip before sliding it forward, the movement tugging at his skin just enough to allow the water better access. He let his hand continue its slide around and up to his chest as he sunk down from his toes until his heels were planted on the floor and the water had shifted back up to the dimple at the base of his spine.

 

He dropped his fingers lower, trailing them through a dusting of fine hairs and a cluster of tight curls before snugging his cock in the palm of his hand and letting his fingers complete a circle.

 

This wasn’t what he had intended when he stepped into the shower. He had only been hoping to wash away the grime of the day and ease the muscle aches accumulated and ignored for the case. He hadn’t intended this, no, but there was no denying how good the water felt or the benefit. It was a somewhat lazy arousal, and it was his to do with as he wished.

 

One slow, drawn-out tug. Another. A third and his cock began to shift, growing harder, though not completely. It felt good.

 

He could still feel the water pulsing against the muscles in his lower back, remember how it felt just moments earlier as it hit his anus, and he knew he wanted more than the semi-relief offered by a few more well-timed pulls.

 

Another moment of simply standing there, cock in hand as the water thrummed, and Sherlock left his shaft bereft and stretched his arm out just enough to reach the bottle of bath gel. A couple of one-handed pumps delivered at the leisurely pace he’d set on his cock and he cupped a puddle of opaque gel in his palm, its initial coolness warming quickly in contact with his skin and its gingery scent wafting to fill the enclosed space.

 

He reached his hand behind himself, guiding it at an angle to gather water without washing the gel down the drain, and began breaking down the gel into lather. He brushed his thumb against his fingers and curled his fingers against the thick muscle of his thumb before dragging them through the gel. With the glide, Sherlock recalled the sensation of a slightly calloused thumb brushed over the plump tautness of a cockhead — his cockhead — smearing the single drop of liquid at its tip.

 

Sherlock rose on his toes, thrusting his hips up and back. The water almost tickled as it traced his cleft and settled at Sherlock’s hole. When he reached back a second time, Sherlock’s aim was lower, his thumb and forefinger separating his buttocks and his slick middle finger finding the pucker of skin in between.

 

This time when Sherlock shifted back to his heels, it was to keep the water from washing away the slick of the lather. As he pressed his finger to his opening, relaxing into the spark of pleasure but not yet breaching the ringed barrier, Sherlock allowed his mind to linger on the sensations of slick, damp heat and the building ache of desire.

 

The image Sherlock’s mind supplied — in which he was bent over his chair, face buried in the Union Jack cushion as John breathed warm, moist air against Sherlock’s cleft and snaked his tongue out to prod at his opening — was all the encouragement his body needed to respond, and he felt his cock grow harder, finally taking a definite interest in the teasing of his fingers and the water.

 

He was so lost to the sensations — the water, the heat, the slight pressure of his finger at his anus setting off muted sparks along nerve endings, even the familiar scent of his bath gel — that he hadn’t heard the bathroom door open and didn’t notice as the shower curtain shifted.

 

As he felt a hand trace the curve of his spine, Sherlock jerked slightly, his surprise tempered by his recognition of the touch and a voice, less a full sound than an awed whisper.

 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

 

Sherlock held still, knew the effect his long, lean lines had on the owner of that voice. He raised his head and allowed his desire to show as he made eye contact.

 

Something like an electrical charge pulsed between them, sparks snapping.

 

Sherlock didn’t break eye contact but let his eyelids fall halfway, raised his hips and pressed until his finger breached his pucker of muscle and slid in deep in one stroke.

 

“John.” The guttural moan echoed off the tiled walls.

 

“Christ, Sherlock.”

 

John had removed his shoes before entering the bathroom and now he scrambled to tug at his jumper, his flies. To get naked as fast as possible.

 

Sherlock hadn’t taken his eyes off John. He felt his cock throb at the indication of John’s eagerness, but he didn’t change his own pace. Instead, he slowly eased his finger out of his hole until just the tip remained inside him. He just as slowly guided it back in until it would go no deeper, holding it there, holding it still and relying on muscle more than movement to roll his hips and create the desired friction.

 

He heard the hissing intake of air as John finished stripping and looked up — just as the muscles shifted under Sherlock’s skin. He let his finger slide almost out again and John quickly reached under the sink, grabbed the lube kept there and stepped into the shower behind Sherlock.

 

He felt John’s grip — steady confidence laced with a tremor of desire — on his hip and heard the opening snap of the cap on the lube. Then John’s hand was on his.

 

Sherlock pushed again. This time, when he slid his finger deep, it was joined by one of John’s.

 

John’s fingers weren’t as long as Sherlock’s, but they were slightly thicker and they were talented. Sherlock moaned softly, partly because of the change in fullness and partly because John was curling and uncurling his finger, one moment straightening it to slide along Sherlock’s finger, the next crooking it to shift the pressure.

 

It was anything but boring, the way John kept changing up, and Sherlock was tempted to turn this leisurely tease into something more urgent, more demanding. He discarded the idea as quickly as he had it. He was tired. Frankly, he just didn’t have the energy for that kind of workout at the moment.

Besides, this was good, very good, the slow pace John was setting contrasting with the rapidity of the pulsing water as it hit his skin where it wasn’t blocked by John’s body. The two paces in tandem gently thrilled his nerve endings and massaged the weary edges of his mind.

 

Sherlock didn’t want his choice of slow and easy to make John think he wasn’t interested — or worse, bored — and he clinched the muscles of his arse around his finger and John’s as he shifted back in a silent bid for more.

 

John responded by leaning over him, pressing freshly licked lips to Sherlock’s vertebrae and pressing his hand more firmly against Sherlock’s, a move that effectively nudged their intertwined fingers just a bit deeper.

 

Sherlock felt the weight of his penis grow heavier between his thighs and his testicles draw closer to his body. He could feel the weight of John’s interest — itself generously lubed — against the back of his thigh. He wanted so badly to touch his cock, to replicate the leisurely strokes of moments earlier until he pulled the last drops of ejaculate from his body.

 

Just when he determined he could maintain his balance — and free one hand — by resting his forehead directly against the tiled wall, Sherlock heard his own sharp intake of breath as John’s free hand found him first.

 

A low swipe let John brush his fingers up and under Sherlock’s testicles before wrapping them around his cock. A teasing squeeze was followed by a slow tug that started at the base of Sherlock’s shaft and stretched his erection to even more impressive lengths before lightly lubed fingers slipped past the rim of his head and off.

 

Sherlock muffled a moan and let his head fall forward again to rest on his forearm, trusting John to put his hand back where it belonged — on him.

 

John did not disappoint, this time getting a firmer but still easy grasp and falling into a rhythm that let him use one hand to stroke up and down Sherlock’s penis and the other to pump his and Sherlock’s fingers into Sherlock’s arse.

 

John has begun subtly grinding his erection into Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock shifted, being careful not to disrupt the pace while encouraging John to slide between his thighs. John, experienced in reading Sherlock by now, took the hint and slid his cock between two walls of muscle. Sherlock moved to press his thighs together to increase the friction for John.

 

At the same moment, John added another finger to those already buried inside Sherlock’s body, the extra stretch of a third digit registering with Sherlock just as he clenched his thigh muscles around John’s cock, the heat of it made even warmer by its contrast with damp skin no longer warmed by direct contact with the water.

 

Even at this relaxed pace, the combination didn’t take long to work its magic, and Sherlock felt his thighs tighten, his body bracing — unbidden — for his approaching climax.

 

“John,” he said, the single word of warning little more than a whispered rumble that he was sure John felt more than heard.

 

“Come for me, love,” John responded, the words low and almost reverent as he curled his finger against that nub of nerves buried deep inside Sherlock and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s penis.

 

Then Sherlock was coming, warm ribbons of semen escaping his body as stars sparked behind his eyelids. In the throes of his orgasm, Sherlock’s mind went offline, lost in sensations of John, water, warmth and John, John, John …

 

John gave one last squeeze to the head of Sherlock’s cock, drawing out the last drop of come and sending a shudder through Sherlock’s body.

 

As the sensation began to wane and Sherlock began trying to breathe again — the fingers in his arse still pleasantly filling but mercifully stilled — there was another sensation, the sensation of John thrusting between his climax-tightened thighs and coming, leaving the heat of his ejaculate to trail down Sherlock’s gracilis and adductor magnus muscles before curling around to the back of his knee and nesting above his plantaris.

 

Then John collapsed across Sherlock’s back, and for long moments the only sounds in the bathroom were those of water hitting skin and tile — and two men trying to breathe, one of them wrapped around the other.

 

It took a minute or two, but Sherlock finally registered that the water was cooling, not yet uncomfortable but not nearly as steamy as it had been when he’d stepped foot in the shower. He was loath to move but knew he had to, if not for his own sake then for John, whose body was shielding his from much of the water.

 

Another deep inhale and exhale and Sherlock carefully slid his finger from where it still felt satisfying, if a bit more sensitive, John’s fingers sliding out in tandem. He let the rest of his fingers tangle with John’s and gave John’s hand a squeeze before raising his head from where it was pillowed on his forearm and starting to straighten.

 

John straightened, too, returning Sherlock’s squeeze and pulling back a bit to give Sherlock room to turn before reaching around him for the bottle of bath gel. A dab in his palm and he reclaimed Sherlock’s hand and rubbed, creating a lather and thoroughly washing each finger and under short-clipped nails. Another squirt of the soapy liquid and he splayed his strong hands across Sherlock’s chest. Despite having just come — or because of it — Sherlock closed his eyes and turned himself over to the sensation of slightly calloused fingers and vaguely tickly soap bubbles as John finished the washing job Sherlock had never really started.

 

He noted another shift in John’s breathing — one that mirrored his own — as John knelt and ran soapy hands between his thighs, paying particular attention to removing the sticky evidence of their activities. John leaned to one side — not far, but enough to allow the water to hit Sherlock and rinse away the soapy residue.

 

Then Sherlock felt John’s open mouth on his inner thigh, its heat contrasting pleasingly with the cooling water. It was worshipful and hungry at once, with just a bit of edge in the lazy nip that drew a moan from Sherlock as John withdrew his lips and stood again to face him.

 

By the time John had hurriedly washed himself— Sherlock watching appreciatively from beneath drowsy lids and using a slender finger to trace random trails of water as they slid along ridges of John’s musculature — the water had become distinctly chilly, and Sherlock didn’t need any encouragement to leave the shower’s spray as John shut off the water.

 

He grabbed the bath towel he had set out earlier and turned to hold it for John, intending to envelop him in it at the first possible moment. Instead, John climbed from the tub, plucked the towel from his hands and wrapped Sherlock in it, using its generous folds to briskly but gently towel away what lingering water drops he could. Those drops falling from thick, dark curls were notoriously hard to vanquish, and Sherlock relaxed into John’s touch as he massaged the fabric over his scalp and squeezed at damp ringlets before tousling the clumped strands to further aid the drying process.

 

Sherlock blinked hard once, twice — fighting — before his eyelids drooped and he swayed, John’s fingers in his hair both lulling him to sleep after their activities in the shower and gently keeping him upright when his overtired body would have betrayed him.

 

Once he was steady again, John let go and hastily ran the towel over his own body.

 

“Bed now, love.”

 

Sherlock’s sleep-befuddled brain registered the soft command and silently marveled at the different inflections John could put in those words. It wasn’t the heat of passion — one of Sherlock’s favorite inflections, full of clipped consonants and staccato full stops — fueling them this time but a protective warmth, the difference found in tone of voice and punctuation.

 

“Your commas, John,” he said, the words torpid and a bit slurred around the edges. “Almost as good as your full stops.”

 

If John said anything else, Sherlock missed it, though he did catch a patience-gathering sigh as John moved steady hands to his waist and turned him toward the bathroom door. A few moments later and Sherlock found himself being tucked into bed, the marshmallowy duvet providing welcome warmth for his still-shower-damp skin.

 

Then John was curled around him again, chest and thighs firm against back and thighs. Sherlock finally let sleep claim him, the press of John’s lips against his spine punctuating him with unspoken promise.


End file.
